


First They Must Catch You (Then They Must Keep You)

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: Grew Shining White (and flashed like a star) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anthropomorphic, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: They turn him into the perfect animal, the perfect soldier...or so they think.  Enter Tony Stark, a rabbit with a faulty fear response who just happens to speak fluent feline.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For a Fic-For-Fodder exchange: Rook asked for Bucky/Tony - "carnivore", sending in an exchange worth a minimum of 3K words. Yeeeep. 3K. Dudes, this is _me_.
> 
> (Heads up Flight Rising people: I will be doing another Fic-For-Fodder exchange for the second week of Light's double dom push if you'd like to participate - you can start queing fodder now if you'd like, but I won't be able to start taking it until 12/25. Details will be essentially the same as in [this post](http://ciceqi.tumblr.com/post/153895653363/fic-for-fodder-thru-saturday), possibly with an expanded list of characters or pairings, since I expect it to be a tougher battle. Check back on my tumblr for updates!)
> 
> Title adapted from _Watership Down_.

When they finally drag him out of his cell, Bucky's long since lost track of the days. Food comes on an irregular schedule, and he's been kept just far enough from windows and doors that he hasn't smelled fresh air since they sewed up what's left of his arm and left him to rot. Half-starved as he is, it's a good job on their part that they tranq him as soon as they burst through the door; he's hungry enough, mad enough, _scared_ enough that he attacks without waiting to see who it is.

There's six of them, all dogs, but the Russians aren't nearly as picky as Hydra about who they recruit. Instead of a homogenous pack of purebred shepherds, creepily identical in the ears and the tall, broad cut of their bodies, the guards are a mixed pack of huskies with something a little lupine in the slant of their eyes. They're big, fast, not afraid of a wilder like him, but that's just fine; Bucky's not afraid of them either.

He claws up the first three mutts that dive in to tackle him, takes a good chunk out of the meat of another's shoulder, though he misses the throat. Someone grabs one of his tufted ears and twists, and he yowls through the muffling meat of a wrist he's trying to bite clear through.

It takes three punishing cracks of a nightstick to the skull before his knees start to wobble, or maybe it's the drugs. The world goes watery on the fourth hit, and then he's down, or no, he's _up_ , hard hands seizing him to half-drag him through the open doorway and out into the concrete hall beyond.

He tries to count doors, the crisp footfalls of his captors, but his vision keeps greying out, and the ringing in his ears rises and falls with the pounding in his head. He'll have to rely on his nose when he gets free, but that's not exactly a hardship. He's no bloodhound, but he's not a damned housecat, either.

He's expecting some kind of interrogation room, but when they haul him into a sterile white lab, he panics. The guards' snarls are too thick for him to apply the smattering of Russian he's picked up, but he doesn't _care_ what they say. He needs out of here--he can't--fuck, not again--

"Sergeant Barnes," a voice he knows too well raps out, cutting through the chaos. Bucky freezes, the short hairs on the back of his neck trying to stand up straight and stiff, his lips pulling away from sharp teeth.

Zola rises from a desk by the far wall, and that...that's impossible. Unless Steve botched the mission after Bucky took a header, Zola ought to be in a cell of his own, not given the run of another godsdamn torture chamber. The fat little rat looks as complacent as ever, peering at Bucky through his spectacles with a smug smile, round ears pricked up sharp.

When Bucky lunges for him, Zola's naked, wormlike tail rattles against the floor in alarm, but he stands his ground as the guards yank Bucky back.

"Really, Sergeant," Zola says with a sniff, his sharp nose twitching jerkily. "Such displays are both unseemly and premature. It's a wonder you ever passed for tame."

"Fuck you, you civvie lapwarmer," Bucky growls, upper lip curling. He's never made any damn apologies for being of wilder stock, and he's not about to start now. "I'm not the animal here."

"More's the pity," Zola replies, smiling tightly. "There's something very pure in the responses of true animals. Fight. Flight. Eat. Kill."

"Wrong order, bootlicker." Fuck. What the hell is Zola on about now? Is that what they'd been testing on him before: something to give their troops the edge of a feral in battle?

Zola clicks his tongue against his sharp incisors and shakes his head. "And here I'd been told someone managed to turn a lynx into a gentleman."

Bucky throws himself against the guards' restraining hold again, not caring that he's probably proving Zola right. He doesn't have a problem with civvies, not even the ones that have a problem with him. Instinct is instinct, and sometimes it just flares up, no matter how many centuries of civilization you've got. At least he doesn't try to pretend it's something else. No, what he has a problem with is the insinuation that he needs to be tamed like some dumb animal, because tame is something he's never going to be. He's _safe_ , though, safe enough for decent folk, and always has been. It's something he's prided himself on all his life.

"Tell me, Sergeant," Zola says abruptly as Bucky's hauled back once more. "Do you know why it is rats are regarded with such suspicion? After all, we're quite clever. Charming, even, when we care to be." Bucky spits in wordless fury; Zola merely arches a brow. "No?" Just like that, the smile drops away from Zola's face. "It's because everyone knows we're only one famine, one plague, from remembering we're _your_ kind after all."

And maybe that's it: maybe that's how Zola can do the sick shit he does, if he's a civvie who's been treated like a wilder and hates them both. Not that it really matters; knowing the hows and whys isn't going to get Bucky out of this.

"Well," Zola says brightly, tugging a smile back on. "Never fear, Sergeant. As the trappings of civilization seem to offend you, we'll rid you of those bad habits soon enough. You'll be the perfect animal when we're through with you," he adds, grin stretching as Bucky's eyes widen helplessly. "The perfect soldier. I think even you'll agree there's not much difference between the two."

Fuck, is he...? He can't mean to--

"If you please, gentlemen," Zola says, stepping out of the way as the guards drag Bucky to a table festooned with heavy straps. "Let us begin."

It takes all four of the remaining guards to lock him in place, and that's the last bit of satisfaction he has to cling to for a while.

***

It's too late to save what's left of Tony's sanity, but the media circus portion of the latest charity event is finally winding down. He's done the meet-and-greet, smiled pretty for the cameras, mostly while holding a martini glass between him and the crowds. As shields go, it's mostly for decoration; he wants all his wits about him. Keeping a tight rein on his ears and his feet is second-nature to him these days, but he'd once stomped on a flyaway sheet of press questions and spent six months gritting his teeth over 'Thumper' gags. It never used to bother him, but, well, Avengers.

At least lunch was decent, though that's probably down to the Children's Center not wanting to spark any hospital food jokes. The 'rabbit food' cracks from the carnivores at the next table down make up for that, though.

Tony ignores part of himself that still wants to ditch the crowd and bolt for cover even after so many years in the limelight. Distracting himself with looking for his fellow guest of honor, he finds Rogers stalled not far from the banquet tables, looking just as strained in his own way. That probably has something to do with how he's been cornered by a starry-eyed socialite, pun intended. Someone very high in the event planning department had to have known a children's hospital was the perfect hook to get Rogers to show, but the lack of any actual children present is making Steve look like he's two seconds from breaking out the sad puppy eyes.

Leaving his half-full glass behind, Tony straightens his suit jacket with a crisp tug and waltzes over to rescue Captain America before the ferret practically rubbing herself against him gives in to the obvious urge to scratch him between the ears.

"Hey, Cap," Tony says, striding up with a brilliant grin. He doesn't let even a fraction of hesitation show as he throws an arm around Rogers' shoulders and rides out the shiver of _wrong wrong wrong_ , instincts reminding him that even a dog with thousands of years of civilization bred into the bone is still a predator.

The socialite gives him a speculative look, which he could have predicted, considering the combined reputations of rabbits and weasels.

Her smile goes polite in the face of his fuck-off grin, but hell, he's on a mission of mercy. "Mind if I borrow...?" he begins to say, then steamrolls on before she can answer. "Great. So listen, Cap," he says as he turns Steve around, steering him bodily away. "I realize the morning's been a bust, but I _guarantee_ if you go down to the park right now, you'll find at least three kids willing to throw a stick."

"Thanks, Tony," Rogers says with a snort of laughter, not bristling at him for once. Progress, right? "I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm just saying Sad Golden Retriever is not a good look on anybody, that's all. Also, wow--a ferret, huh? Pretty frisky for a purebred American pup."

Steve gives him a weird look, one floppy yellow ear perking to match his raised eyebrow. "You realize my mom was a wolfhound, right?"

"Huh?" So he's a little distracted by the cuteness of that ear. Even the eerie blue eyes, out of place amongst the truly civilized, can't negate the effect.

"My mother. Irish wolfhound."

Tony frowns, because he did know that, it's just...he's never connected the image of the sainted Sarah Rogers with the lean, grey killers that carved out the first settlements on Irish soil. "Huh. That...really explains a lot."

"And you're forgetting my best friend was a wilder."

And there's that sad, soulful look Tony was trying to prevent. Tony doesn't have to glance back to know Steve's lazily-wagging tail has probably gone limp, clamped to his leg to match the despondent droop of his ears. Get Steve on the subject of injustice or inequality, and he actually matches his propaganda posters, but let him start thinking about all he misses about the past, Barnes in particular, and even Tony's tempted to ruffle the idiot's ears until he stops with the eyes already.

"You know, I always wondered how that worked. Not you two being friends," Tony's quick to explain, letting his arm fall away at the stiffening of Steve's shoulders. "But what the hell was a lynx doing in New York in the first place?"

Steve relaxes instantly, which does a lot to settle the low-grade jittering of Tony's nerves.

"Oh--well, Buck's family immigrated in the early 'teens. His dad wanted to give the kids a better life than they had on the outskirts, and New York's always been a good place to blend in."

"Makes sense," Tony says on autopilot, noting the brightening of Rogers' eyes, the unthinking way his posture straightens. Tony practically picked up the Steve Rogers Story by osmosis, but he'll freely admit he hasn't paid as much attention to the origins of the other Commandos. They aren't the ones his dad had been obsessed with. "Immigrated from where?" he asks on a hunch. As sad as remembering his friend seems to make Steve, talking about Barnes seems to be having the opposite effect.

Sure enough, Steve smiles. "Canada."

Tony opens his mouth and shuts it again. That can't be right. "Wait. You're telling me Captain America's best friend and right hand man...was Canadian?"

"His _family_ was Canadian," Steve points out long-sufferingly, like it's a well-worn argument. "Bucky was born here."

Canadian. Tony shakes his head with a grin. "You're just destroying that apple pie image of yours right and left, aren't you?"

"If the image you're thinking of was printed in the 40s, then...oops?"

Tony laughs. Really, if his dad had even hinted at the utter shit Rogers could be, he'd have spent a lot less time trying to live up to a legend and more wishing he'd had a chance to shake the asshole's hand.

Steve smirks at him, but he's projecting friendly dog fluffiness all over the place, with an edge of hopefulness like he wants to dart a playful nip at Tony's shoulder but knows it won't be taken well. "So, where are you headed after this?" Steve asks as a compromise. "Got any big plans for the weekend?"

"Oh, you know," Tony hedges with a shrug. They're edging uncomfortably close to a line of conversation he desperately wants to avoid, but leave it to Rogers to nose it out unerringly. "Thought I'd give somewhere sunny a chance."

"Sunnier than Malibu?"

"Eh, I was thinking maybe Rio. The Bahamas. Break out of the mold."

"Couple's weekend?"

"Yeah, uh...something like that." Like something entirely the opposite of that, but it still counts, right? And he gets it: that's exactly the kind of hair-splitting--ha--that landed him in hot water with Pepper in the first place, like maybe it was _implied_ that he wouldn't build any new suits when he promised to destroy the old ones, but....

It was never going to work out, not really. Pepper may be the center of Tony's world, but he was never going to be able to make her the center of his universe, and no self-respecting cat would settle for less.

"Oh," Steve says uncertainly, like he's got some inkling of what Tony's not saying.

That's more than enough sharing for one day.

"Anyway, I'm going to duck out of here and get that vacation started," Tony says brightly. "If you don't hear from me for a while, feel free to organize a manhunt on the nearest island paradise."

"Sure thing, Tony," Rogers says with a lopsided smile. "Call if you need anything, okay?"

Tony claps Steve on the shoulder with a grin that probably speaks for itself. _Not a chance in hell, Cap._ Steve's a dog; he probably knows a thing or two about licking one's wounds in peace.

One of the nicest things about being Tony Stark is that even valet service is express service. No muss, no fuss, and very little waiting. Stepping out onto the cordoned-off walk outside the hotel, Tony straightens his cuffs as his car cruises up around the corner. The valet slides out with a grin he's hard-pressed to contain, tail wagging furiously, holding the car door mostly closed as a knot of pedestrians pass between him and Tony.

Tony huffs a quiet laugh as he goes to meet the kid. For once he's not worried about being propositioned himself; his car's virtue, on the other hand--

There's a squeal of tires at the light on the corner, but no resulting collision, just the sound of raised voices as two motorists roll down their windows and start hurling imprecations at each other. Tony tenses as ingrained paranoia kicks in, suspicious of any distraction that might turn out to be staged, but it's too late. He feels the sting of a dart at the back of his neck seconds before a shock arcs through him reminiscent of the miniature Tasers he designed for Romanoff. Someone's taking no chances.

He slumps, listening for the shouts of alarm sure to follow, only to be jostled then caught by another knot of pedestrians. They carry him along with them, past his car and the still-grinning valet who jumps right back behind the wheel, to a black SUV with dark-tinted windows parked just ahead.

He activates the cuff on his right arm with a flick of his wrist, his pulse racing in his ears as the mechanism unfolds and begins to reform in the shape of a glove. It's about halfway through its transformation when a tiny silver disc no bigger than a nickel attaches itself to the wrist piece, electricity jumping through him a second time while causing the whirring plates of his emergency gauntlet to misfire and jam. Someone wrenches the whole thing loose as he's shoved into the back of the SUV, being none too careful about his bones as they pull it free. He's lucky they don't break his wrist in the process.

Trying to call a suit to him is second-nature, but it's a lost cause; he's not done building the one that ruined his life, that might have saved his life if he'd just...kept...at it. And he...he doesn't think JARVIS is...doesn't think JARVIS _can_ monitor his signal like this, his implants firing with nothing listening on the other end--and this, this is why he can't just--why he--what--

"That was easier than I thought," someone says above him as he's pushed into dirty floorboards that smell of rubber and metal and urban grime, scents leaping out at his sensitive nose as the world begins to spin. His cheek cracks hard into the steel toes of someone's boot as his arms are yanked up behind him, slender mag cuffs closing around his wrists with a pneumatic hiss.

He tries to curl up as best he can, not liking this position--on his knees, ass in the air, surrounded by dogs--but only manages to roll awkwardly onto his side.

Someone toes him lightly in the ribs as a final person settles into the back and the door slams shut. He waits for a harder kick, a threat, the first bite of mockery, but as the SUV pulls away from the curb, the silence grows heavy, dark, and pulls him under.

***

Tony comes to as a broad palm delivers a sharp, stinging smack to his cheek. He's pretty sure it's not the first. He debates the merits of playing dead for half a second, but then he gets hit again.

"Up and at 'em, Stark," a gruff voice cajoles, too cheerful. "You're going to be late to meet your new pal."

The world's fuzzy at first until Tony blinks his eyes back into focus, and then he pulls his head back with a grimace of distaste. There's a dog looming over him--Doberman, he can tell by the cut of the ears, and why do parents _do_ that shit to their kids?--big and broad, unshaven and a little grizzled at the temples. He's in a fucking STRIKE uniform, which should be a relief but instead makes Tony's stomach clench with dread. Tony's not tied _to_ the chair he's sprawled in, but his hands are still bound behind his back, and this doesn't look anything like a rescue.

"I'm late to everything," Tony slurs, shaking his head a little as he tries to clear his brain. "That's my shtick. But hey, if you think you can do a better job of wrangling me than Pep--"

"Oh, man," the big guy says with a pitying chuckle as he straightens. "He does not like the noisy ones. But I guess that's your problem, not mine."

Tony smiles tightly, trying not to let the shiver of unease that just crawled down his spine show. "Actually, I'm pretty sure your problem is overconfidence. I mean...you do know what happens to people who try to kidnap me...right?"

His captor grins; someone behind him laughs outright, and Tony's eyes do a quick skitter around the room, counting five--no, six--guys in the same damn uniform. Shit. Steve was at the same event; was Rogers the real target, and did these assholes manage to pull one over on him? Or--gods--are they actually SHIELD?

"Yep," the Dobie drawls smugly. "Morons usually try to put you to work. Keep you alive. We don't give a shit about any of that." He hunches a shoulder while the ice is still spreading through Tony's guts. "You're already past your expiry date, Stark; this isn't even about you. Boss just wanted to throw his favorite pet a bone, and your name came up."

That...no, he does not like the sound of that at all.

He struggles when they haul him out of the chair, uses every dirty trick Romanoff taught him and a few of Rhodey's to round things out, but these guys are trained agents, and Tony's smarts have always been his finest weapon. They don't handle him half as roughly as he expects as they haul him down a barren hallway to a heavy-duty door with a shuttered security window at the far end, but then the head goon shoves him face-first into the wall and holds him there by the scruff of the neck, leaning in close.

"Just so you know, I told the boss it was fucking cruel to throw you in there. Mouthy little bunny like you? You won't last five minutes." He snorts. "Some reward."

To Tony's shock, he feels the cuffs removed just before the door swings open.

"Asset!" the Dobie barks out, sending Tony reeling into what appears to be a one-room cell with a hard push between his shoulder blades. "Got a present for you, compliments of the boss."

Tony catches himself awkwardly and whirls around as the door slams shut on the nasty laughter of the STRIKE team outside. The cell is almost completely bare: there's a toilet and sink along one wall; a cheap, metal-framed bed along the other; cameras in two corners of the room.

Sitting on the neatly-made bed is a man in black leather body armor cut to bare his left arm, which is entirely encased in metal plates. His chin is tipped down, but the eyes staring with unblinking intensity through the ragged curtain of his hair are a piercing, predatory blue, and the ears pricked in Tony's direction sport long, black tufts of fur at their tips.

Tony's seen lynxes before, mostly in old black-and-white photographs from his dad's collection. Wilder relations with the civilized world may have improved, largely due to James Barnes' legacy, but they're still not a common sight. And there's something about this one, something familiar about the shape of the jaw under all that scruff, the cleft of the chin below plush lips that haven't yet parted in a snarl, the eyes pinning him in place.

Because seriously, he _can't fucking move_ here, and that's making his heart slam so hard against his ribs, he'd bet his cellmate can hear it.

Pale eyes narrow, and then the lynx rises from the bed, slow and deliberate. He closes the gap between them by one step, then another.

Tony's paralysis breaks all at once, and though there's nowhere to run _to_ , he tries. It's pure instinct that takes hold of him then, the conviction that in speed lies safety.

He barely gets half turned around before the lynx is on him, slamming him to the floor and looming over him like a crouching gargoyle.

Heart in his throat, Tony rolls over onto his back, brings his legs up and kicks as hard as he can while tearing at the metal hand wrapped around his throat. He catches the lynx in stomach and hip, and that's it; he's going to die, because the bastard doesn't even budge. He just shifts his grip from Tony's neck to his shoulder, flips him half-over onto his face, and--

Teeth. Bite down. At the back of his neck.

Tony does what any rabbit in his position would do.

He screams his fucking head off.

***

"Aw, man," Rollins half-groans, half-laughs, leaning over Rumlow's shoulder to watch the security feed from the Soldier's cell. "I can't fucking look. He's not going to eat this one, is he?"

"He hasn't eaten anybody yet, but there's a first time for everything," Rumlow replies, face scrunching a little in disgust as he leans away from the monitors. The wheeled chair under him squeaks a protest, built for the mousy little lab techs that usually mind the Soldier while he's out of cryo but off the field. Rumlow shakes his head with a snort. "Anyway, that's Stark out of the way. Now we just gotta wait on the orders for Rogers. Any sign of suspicion on that front?"

"Completely oblivious," Rollins informs him, his big, dumb tail whacking a few knees as it wags in pure satisfaction. Rumlow sometimes gets a little bitter about the slight edge of balance it would have given him, but he's mostly grateful his own tail was docked when he was a baby. It's done wonders for his poker face. "No one noticed a thing."

"Good job," Rumlow says, glancing over his shoulder to include the whole team. "Time to get back to DC before they greenlight Insight without us."

He glances again at the monitors then swiftly away, grateful that transporting the Asset into position is someone else's problem. He sincerely doubts Stark will last long enough for it to matter--the Soldier _hates_ having adults quartered with him, though he'll inexplicably train children to hunt if left to his own devices--but Rumlow really doesn't need to see the Asset playing with his food.

***

The soldier jerks back at the noise, only just remembering not to bite down at the same time, and growls a low warning as he glares around the room, crouched low. There's nothing, though--the door is still shut, and no one has appeared while he was distracted--so the little rabbit must have screamed because of him.

That's...unsettling. He usually understands what he's meant to do with the prisoners he's assigned. They come to him stinking of pain and terror and blood, sometimes of recent couplings. When they see him, they beg. He is not to listen to begging. He is to listen to the guards, and the guards say things like, 'Your turn,' and 'Here's what's left,' and 'Take care of this one, will you?'

He's taken care of many, many targets, finished many jobs his handlers couldn't be bothered with. He is only deployed to hunt, to kill.

Never before has he been given a present, a...reward.

The little rabbit stares wide-eyed at the soldier, frozen again but for the shivers that wrack him. He smells of panic now when he didn't before. The soldier had only bitten his scruff to stop the kitten-fighting; perhaps that was wrong.

He.

There was.

The soldier frowns thoughtfully, slinking closer when the rabbit remains quiet. The rabbit's breathing picks up. His long, sable ears are clamped to his skull, but his eyes are constantly roving. They fix on the door, the cameras, the bed, but mostly on the soldier. The soldier inches nearer and sniffs. The rabbit tenses. He's definitely going to kick again.

But what is that _smell?_

The soldier leans in slowly, eyes fixed on the rabbit's. He's curious. He knows that smell, and there's something tantalizingly familiar about the rabbit's scent as well. There was...there was a rabbit. Once. Not this one. A different one. He _knows_ this.

He's still two feet away when he sees the flicker in the rabbit's eyes. When the rabbit moves--to escape? to attack?--he pounces, pinning his quarry--no, his _present_ \--to the floor.

" _Fuck_ , would you knock it off with the cat and mouse games?" the rabbit growls at him, eyes snapping. One cheek is mashed into the tiles, his body half-contorted under the soldier's weight, shoulders flat and legs curled to one side. The hand braced on the floor by the rabbit's face is the one the soldier is interested in. "I don't know what kind of demented prison fantasies you've--what the fuck are you doing?"

He sniffs along the rabbit's hand and up his arm. The good smell is fainter at his shoulder, stronger all along his side. He shoves his face into the rabbit's armpit, rides out the yelp and thrash that follows, and purrs.

"Wh--what. Are you seriously...?"

The solider lets his eyes slip half-closed. He likes this present. The rabbit smells good, safe, familiar.

"You know...my dad knew a lynx, once. He, uh...he was a pretty big fan of Captain America, too. The lynx, I mean. And my dad. I mean my dad was...fuck."

He's going to keep this one. They wouldn't let him keep the little fox kits he played with long ago, but this one is different. This one is his.

He leans up and rubs the underside of his jaw hard along the rabbit's tense shoulder so that everyone will know.

***

The thing is, Tony knows cats. He's dated cats. He was in a committed relationship with a cat for years, and he knows their tells, like how being turned into furniture essentially translates to: _I'm sitting on it; it's mine._ It was even cute when Pepper did it; she fit neatly in his lap, like she belonged there.

This crazy fucking lynx, though, who he's starting to suspect looks familiar for a reason and who could _crush Tony with his fucking thighs_ \--

Tony attempts to wriggle over onto his back, and the lynx just shifts over him, allowing it. He's still staring at Tony intently, but cats do that. The guy's hair is in his face again, and even in the midst of a war, Barnes had taken a lot more pride in his appearance, but he's almost positive....

He reaches up to push the guy's hair away from his face, freezing as tufted ears flick back on a warning growl. He's pretty sure the sharp, white teeth he can just see the tips of could sever his fingers in a snap, but he's using the hand that must still hold some trace of Rogers' scent, so his fingers get sniffed, not savaged.

"Barnes?" he asks quietly as he tries again, moving slower this time. He should probably be worried about surveillance, only he's pretty sure they don't expect him to make it out of this alive; they probably don't care what he discovers.

Barnes stares down at him blankly, not a trace of recognition sparking in his eyes. That's...bad, on more levels than Tony can really process right now, because on the one hand, this is his dad's old friend, Captain America's best friend, and on the other....

"Barnes," he says more confidently, keeping his voice down just in case. "Listen. Uh...you can talk, right?"

And great. Did he mention he's fluent in feline? Because according to the flat look Barnes is giving him, he's just proven to yet another cat that they're the only intelligent life forms on this planet.

"Right. Well, I'm Tony. Tony Stark. As in Howard Stark--do you remember Howard? No?" More staring. Tony sighs. "Lucky you. Anyway, forget Howard. That guy you're smelling on me--Steve Rogers?--would be _very disappointed_ if you killed me, so maybe you could not do that. Also, who the hell are these people? Usually when I'm kidnapped someone at least gives me a name, and I'm finding the lack of an evil monolog disturbing. It's just not natural."

"Hydra," Barnes says, his voice a low rasp. His eyes narrow sharply. "Who's Steve Rogers?"

"Uh...your best buddy? Captain America? Wait, back up. Did you say Hydra?"

Barnes nods once. He sniffs suspiciously at the hand still holding his hair back. Rubbing the side of his jaw down the heel of Tony's palm, he sniffs again and decides...decides maybe he can live with someone else's scent on Tony after all...?

"Oh, hell no," Tony insists, letting go of Barnes' hair and slapping his hands to the floor, preparing to push himself away.

Barnes _flattens_ him, dropping all his weight onto Tony at once. It drives the breath from Tony's lungs in a whoosh, and between Barnes' greater body mass and the arrogant way the asshole makes himself at home on Tony from chest to knees, Tony's left with no leverage to struggle free. He braces himself not to react to anything that happens next, but Barnes just shoves his face under Tony's jaw, wriggles into a more comfortable position, and goes completely fucking boneless. Then he starts to purr.

"Oh, come on!" Tony bitches, flailing his arms loose to push at Barnes' shoulders. "Get off me, damn it, you're heavy!"

Barnes doesn't even pretend to listen, not even a little bit. Tony considers smacking him over the back of the head before remembering how Barnes had reacted to having his hair messed with. He settles for thumping his balled-up fist on Barnes' left shoulder instead, only to find metal underneath the leather.

"What the--"

He freezes as teeth settle delicately in the skin of his throat. In one bite, Barnes could crush his trachea, pierce arteries and leave Tony to bleed out, but he doesn't even break the skin. He just hovers there a breathless moment before letting Tony go with an absent lick that scrapes against the fresh stubble coming in on Tony's neck.

It takes a moment for Tony to remember how to breathe, because predator, and teeth, and _fuck_. The part of him that absolutely refuses to let his instincts keep him down won't let him keep quiet.

"Don't, ah...I'm guessing that means don't touch the shoulder?"

"It's operational," Barnes says into the juncture of Tony's neck and shoulder, lips brushing against his skin.

"Operational. So...that's not armor, is it?"

"Replacement."

Replacement. Huh. "You lost an arm? In the fall?" Barnes tenses over him, which is somehow worse than the biting thing. The biting...Barnes hadn't even been worked up, just...warning him? Can a bite to the throat be conversational? Pepper had been a lot more respectful of interspecies boundaries, but something tells him boundaries aren't a thing Barnes pays much attention to. "I mean, I don't know if you remember this part, but...you fell. From a train. In the--"

Barnes rips himself away with a snarl, and Tony skitters free before he can stop himself, _knowing_ you don't run from a predator, but he needs room if he's going to fight.

Instead of lunging for him, Barnes retreats to pace angrily by the door, ears clamped to his skull. His head's tucked down, hair curtaining his face again, and Tony can just make out the shine of bared teeth through the strands. At one point Barnes pauses to consider the door like he's thinking about clawing it up, but instead he retreats to sit on the bed, in the same upright, waiting position as Tony first found him in. He doesn't look at Tony once.

That should really be more comforting, only Tony has the sneaking suspicion he just pissed off the one possible ally he might have found in this place.

"Barnes?" he asks uncertainly, slowly straightening out of his wary stance.

Barnes ignores him. Utterly.

Fuck.

***

There are scraps of things the soldier remembers that are unconnected to anything else. A warm spot of sunlight in a den not his own, the smell of something baking and the soft, slow thump of a tail, steady as a heartbeat. An outstretched hand. A storm of bullets and explosions and shouts, an endless sea of battle. The hot, white glare of a circle of lights in a white room.

Confident hands pulling him out of an olive drab jacket to push a blue coat into his chest. A smirk, fearless eyes. The little guy smells like a rabbit, not a dog, but the soldier lets him push him around anyway. He is meant to be...he _wants_ to be...safe. For people like this.

Falling. He remembers falling. The outstretched hand. A scream. The--

_Freight car._

There was a lot of screaming. He remembers that much.

***

Vess raps twice on the door of the surveillance post, sticking his head in to find Bloom glued to the monitors and not his phone. "Feeding time," Vess says, curious enough to break routine, leaving the dinner cart out in the hall. "How's it looking in there?" Maybe Bloom's rapt attention means the Soldier has finally remembered what his dick is for, though he's not betting on it. He's heard the rumors about what happened the last time they tried to get the Soldier to breed.

Bloom opens his mouth and shuts it again. "I think we've got a problem," he says slowly. The very tip of his skinny tail shivers with unease.

Vess frowns. "'M I gonna have to get a crew together?" He hates this part of the job. He's been to college, okay, passed every qualification exam for a field agent position, but because he doesn't have the weight of bruisers like Rumlow to back up his teeth, he's stuck with the lab mice, cleaning up the rest of Hydra's leftovers. At least the Soldier is usually neat with his kills.

"No. Stark's still alive."

"What, really?" Vess comes around to peer at the monitors and is surprised to find that Bloom is correct. The Soldier is sitting at the edge of his bunk, just like always when he's out of the freezer, hands on his thighs and eyes on the ground. Stark's sitting against the wall opposite the door, watching the Soldier pensively. "Huh. Guess that makes sense."

"How?" Bloom demands, half-turning to stare at him incredulously.

"Well, uh...they didn't really spend any time softening Stark up before putting him in there, right?" Vess says, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment. "So he probably smells a lot less...uh, _tempting_ than usual. If you get my drift."

He knows he's not supposed to feel like that--he's _civilized_ , not a half-feral freak like the Soldier--but the smell of blood, especially on an herbie like Stark, is just like ringing a dinner bell for one of Pavlov's kids.

Bloom stares at him for a long moment, tail shivering and paper-thin ears crumpling down uncertainly. "Dogs," he mutters at last, shaking his head.

"Back atcha, Squeaker," Vess returns with a snort. "So how do we have a problem? I mean, if the guys upstairs wanted Stark dead, they'd have just killed him. They're probably just trying to put the fear of the Soldier in him so he'll actually cooperate for once."

"Except he's _not_ afraid of the Soldier. Much," Bloom adds in the spirit of accuracy.

Vess chuckles. "Yeah, you say that now, but let's see how well Stark does when the Soldier's got both dinner _and_ prey in his nose."

Bloom grimaces, but Vess calls it like it is. The Soldier only knows two things, hunting and killing, and he'll figure out what to do with Stark soon enough.

And if he doesn't, Vess can always help things along.

***

Tony jerks his head up as the rattle of flimsy wheels draws closer, scrambling to his feet as someone bangs three times on the door. "Soldier," a voice barks from outside. "Feeding time."

One idiot part of Tony would like to rush the door as soon as it opens, overpower the guard and make a break for it, only he knows nothing about the facility he's being held in, and there's a pretty good chance Barnes will try to stop him if he tries. They may be stuck in the same cell, but Barnes isn't exactly dressed like a prisoner, and it's too great of a coincidence that they're both being held by Hydra. Add in the replacement arm and the holes in Barnes' memory, and Tony doesn't need the rest spelled out.

Barnes turns towards the door but doesn't rise as it's pushed open, watching blank-faced as a cart is wheeled in. The guy pushing it is maybe Barton's height but not as bulky, and Tony just can't take his floppy, black-and-white ears seriously at all.

There are no plates on the cart, no utensils. There's one large stainless steel bowl, and it's piled high with cubes of raw meat.

"Bon appétit," the guard says with a grin as he sets the bowl down on the floor at Barnes' feet, like he's feeding a dumb animal.

Tony expects Barnes to kick the bowl right into the asshole's face, maybe grab him by the scruff and shove his nose into it until he chokes, but Barnes just sits there as the guy backs out again and slams the door.

What the ever-loving _fuck_?

"You're not seriously going to eat that, are you?" Tony asks, something twisting in his gut as he flops back down to the floor again. It might be disgust and it might be horror, but he's pretty sure it's rage.

Barnes looks over at him then down at the bowl. Up again. He rises after a moment and stoops to pick up the bowl, then walks over and sinks down casually cross-legged to face Tony. He sets the bowl between them.

Tony jerks in startlement, eyes going wide. "Wait. You don't seriously think _I'm_ going to eat that."

Barnes cocks his head and nudges the bowl gently in his direction.

"Yeah, uh, thanks but no thanks. Presentation _aside_ , I'm a rabbit. Not a carnivore. I don't eat meat," he says slowly and clearly. "So if that's what you're used to--I mean, raw? really?--then it's all yours. I ate earlier."

His stomach pinches uncomfortably, reminding him that earlier was a charity luncheon that, while decent, hadn't been exactly filling. He'd planned on running past a drive-through for a veggie burger. Still, he's been hungry before.

Barnes frowns down at the bowl then scoops up a chunk in his bare fingers, popping it into his mouth to chew thoughtfully. He doesn't seem bothered by the fare in the slightest, though it turns Tony's stomach a little to watch. The meat must be fresh, because it paints Barnes' fingers a vivid red, the thick iron smell of it growing stronger by the minute.

Great. He's stuck in a small cell with a predator whose very distant forebears used to _dine on Tony's bones_ , so impending violence is probably a foregone conclusion.

Except it isn't.

Barnes finishes his meal in silence and gets up to place the bowl by the door, then proceeds to sit on the bed and give his fingers a very thorough tongue-bath. It's not even a sexy tongue-bath--he's not even purring--and that: full belly, bed to lounge on being almost entirely ignored, no purr, strikes Tony as so inexpressibly sad, he almost wants to go over there and skritch between the guy's ears.

Almost. He's not crazy.

Yet.

***

"Shit," Bloom mutters to the empty room, grateful Vess had left to take the cart back to the mess. Vess is a dog of very little imagination; he'd have laughed to see the Soldier's reaction, the damage implicit in that innocent attempt at sharing, but he wouldn't have been able to see the danger it represents.

The Soldier had tried to share his food. To no effect, true, but in making the attempt at all, the Soldier had displayed a level of...empathy, _attachment_ , Bloom wouldn't have thought him capable of. He itches to request the Soldier's file, though the facts he wants--the Soldier's time with the Red Room--were never forwarded on. He wonders if the Soldier ever fed the fox kits turned loose in his keeping. He wonders if the Soldier has any recollection at all of Howard Stark.

Of course Tony Stark has recognized the Soldier.

He needs to report this, only Vess is right in one thing: this may all be part of a plan. Despite being a potential thorn in Hydra's side, Rumlow's team had left Stark nearly unmolested before throwing him to the Soldier, and Rumlow had been very clear to the Soldier that Stark was a present. Not a target. Not a mission. The Soldier may well believe that Stark is, in fact, a reward.

A pet.

Bloom leans back in his chair and brings his laced fingers up to his mouth, nibbling lightly on his knuckles. He needs to report this to his superior, but because he _does_ have the imagination the gods gave his kind, he can see beyond the immediate danger.

Stark will likely attempt to turn the Soldier, but the Soldier himself can be erratic in the extreme. The wipes help, but what do you do with a high-strung horse? You find them a mule or a cat to keep them company.

Their superiors have made liberal use of the stick in the past, but maybe...maybe it's time to try the carrot instead.

***

Tony wakes to purring and a weight across his chest, which should be comfortingly familiar, except that the purring is a low, deep rumble, and the weight is _weighty_. Metallic, even, and he feels like he's being spooned by a space heater.

Correction. He's being spooned by an amnesiac Bucky Barnes.

Tony lies perfectly still, waiting for a panic attack that doesn't come. He's probably all out of adrenaline anyway. They'd had another altercation the night before when Barnes had tried to move him to the bed, which Tony had wanted no part of. That had nearly resulted in Barnes biting the back of his neck again, only Barnes had visibly restrained himself. Then he'd wrestled Tony over anyway, flattened him again, and proceeded to _groom Tony's ears_ until he went from being paralyzed with terror and fury to boneless with idiot contentment.

When Barnes started petting his stomach like a habit only half-recalled, Tony was out like a light.

He's a rabbit with a faulty fear response. Sue him.

Barnes doesn't try to stop him when Tony rolls out of bed, but Tony getting up means Barnes is getting up too. They take their turns at the toilet and sink, which is embarrassing, but he's dealt with worse. As far as Tony can tell, Barnes has zero shame, which actually makes the situation less weird than it could be. At least he can be sure Barnes isn't silently laughing at or judging him.

A different goon brings breakfast in, but it's the same as the night before. One bowl. Raw meat. Not even a glance at Tony.

Barnes doesn't like it. He stares at the door for a long time, but it doesn't open again. Eventually he looks at his bowl and then looks at Tony.

Tony rubs the tip of his nose uncomfortably. He has absolutely nothing to go on here except that Barnes seems freakishly strong even for a wilder, is still young and alive somehow despite being almost a century old, and that reminds Tony of precisely one person.

"Go on," Tony urges after a moment. "Eat up. I mean, if you're anything like Steve, your metabolism has been turned up to eleven. Don't hold back on my account."

Barnes frowns but does as he's told.

When lunch comes and Barnes sees the single bowl, he takes a purposeful step toward the guard.

"Soldier!" the guard snaps, and Barnes stills. "Stand down!"

"Soldier?" Tony asks when they're alone again, Barnes picking mutinously at his meal. "Is that what they call you?" The Dobie had called Barnes 'asset', hadn't he?

Barnes nods. "Codename Winter Soldier," he offers without being prompted.

"Uh-huh. Do you have a name, though?"

Barnes only looks confused.

"Do you remember what I've been calling you?" Tony asks cautiously. He halfway expects a dozen guards to burst in and haul him off for even asking the question, but the corridor outside remains quiet.

A nod. "Barnes."

"That's right. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 'Bucky' to your--"

Barnes shakes his head hard, growling under his breath, but he looks more pained than angry. Tony should probably back off, but there's no way he can break out of here under Barnes' nose unless Barnes decides to help. He pretty much _has_ to push.

Still.

"Are you okay?" Tony asks, fisting his hands to keep from reaching out. Startle someone bad enough, and _anyone_ bites. "Did you remember something?"

Barnes regards him warily, eyes full of mute misery. "Screaming," he says softly, like it's something to hide.

Right. That's it. Tony's getting them out of here, both of them. The togetherness factor is no longer up for debate.

Because Tony is fluent in feline, he knows exactly what Barnes needs. It just...takes a moment to force his body to obey, to roll over onto his side and then a little further to bare his stomach, his throat as he stares at Barnes upside-down.

Barnes flows up off his knees and slinks over on all fours, fitting himself into the inviting curl Tony's made of his body with a flexibility Tony would have envied even half his lifetime ago. Grooming is a _busier_ thing for Tony than it is for cats, but Barnes doesn't seem to mind when all Tony does is rest his chin on the top of Barnes' head, right between his ears. His purr is nothing like Pepper's, but Tony's starting to like it all the same.

It's dinnertime again before Barnes runs completely out of patience.

***

Bloom almost wishes he'd kept his observations to himself, but it's too late for regrets now. Gregson is a decent enough boss, but he's been in and out of the monitor room all day, looming over everyone's shoulders. Bloom hates to bring species politics onto the job, but instinct is instinct. Gregson's a rat and he's a mouse; a certain amount of tension is unavoidable.

He's glad enough of Gregson's presence when the knocking from the Soldier's cell starts up. Vess, who's been hovering as if he intends to make himself useful, reaches for his sidearm until Gregson waves him off.

On the security monitors, Bloom watches the Soldier stand at the door of his cell and knock, steady and patient. He can actually hear it from his seat at his post; the Soldier is using his left hand.

"Interesting," Gregson says, eyes fixed avidly on the monitors. "He should have no reason to believe he has orders, correct? He should be expecting some sort of punishment for that. Did Stark put him up to this?"

"I believe not, sir," Bloom replies. "Stark's said very little about himself; mostly he's been concentrating on trying to restore the Soldier's memories."

"Any sign he's succeeded?"

"No, sir. The only memories he seems to have triggered involve the conditioning process."

Gregson nods sharply. "Good."

The knocking is getting louder, the Soldier no longer using his knuckles but the side of his fist.

"Should, ah...should we send in something for Stark?" He'll fetch Stark's dinner himself if it means the Soldier will stay in his cage.

"No." Gregson smiles. "I have an experiment I want to try--but send out a base-wide notification first."

***

The soldier pauses in his knocking. He can hear someone approaching outside, but the sound of wheels that would indicate a second meal being delivered is conspicuously absent. This is unacceptable.

He draws back his fist. "Oh, shit," his present breathes.

"Soldier!" a sharp voice raps out. It's one of the guards, the one who brings his evening rations. "Stand clear. The door is opening."

The soldier steps back and waits as the door swings open. The guard doesn't enter, choosing to fade back against the wall outside, but he holds his stun baton at the ready. The hallway is empty but for the guard and a man in casual business attire: one of the facility's superiors, the rat in charge of the technicians who keep the soldier in working order.

The head technician eyes the soldier, the tilt of his ears more curious than angry. The soldier's gut clenches in sudden tension.

"Well, Soldier? What's the meaning of this disturbance?"

The soldier doesn't relax. There should be more technicians if this one is here, or more guards. There are neither.

This is a test.

"The rabbit needs food," the soldier says evenly. Technicians, doctors, scientists: they like being presented with clear facts. "Not meat."

"And you've taken it upon yourself to see he gets it. I see."

The soldier doesn't answer. It wasn't a question.

"Why do you care?"

It's an easy question. Those are the worst. The soldier doesn't trust that any answer he gives will be correct.

"He's mine."

"And you want to keep him." The head technician snorts a quiet laugh. "All right, then. So long as you understand that taking care of him is your responsibility. It's not our job to care for your pets." With a one-armed shrug, he stands aside. "Go on, then. See to it."

The soldier expects a trick, some kind of resistance, but he's allowed to walk down the hall to the elevator undisturbed. He takes the lift to the floor where the mess is, every nerve buzzing, waiting for the attack sure to come. Surely that's the test; it's been drilled into him for...for a long, long time that only the mission is important. They mean to show him--again?--the futility of wanting to keep things. Of _wanting_ things. They think the effort required to maintain his present in the face of their lesson will deter him.

It won't.

He expects to see more opposition the closer he comes to his goal, but there's only the same skeleton crew that have been here from the start. The guards watch him from the corners of their eyes and over the rims of their coffee cups as he enters the mess but say nothing. A few technicians back off in a hurry as he approaches, but three at a table in the corner strike up an excited conversation as he approaches the long, metal counter where food is laid out for the taking.

Over half the food is completely unsuitable. The majority of the facility's personnel are carnivores, or omnivores like the technicians. There's a large heap of assorted greens in a deep metal container, and when no one tries to stop him, he simply takes it, uncertain when he'll next be allowed out.

The hall outside his quarters is still empty when he returns, the guard still waiting by the door. His rabbit is still inside, twitchy with nerves. The soldier puts the food at his feet, the skin on the back of his neck prickling as he waits--

"Soldier."

There it is.

He straightens and turns, keeping himself loose and relaxed for the blow that crashes across his face and snaps his head to one side. The baton, but not turned on. He is not, surprisingly, in that much trouble, then.

"Down," the guard barks, lighting up the baton just before it slams into the soldier's left shoulder as he's dropping to his knees.

"Hey!" his rabbit protests, starting towards him instead of hanging sensibly back.

The baton swings past the soldier's face, still buzzing with charge, not to hit him but to point a warning at the rabbit, who freezes.

"Back off, Stark, unless you want the same."

The soldier's growl escapes before he can swallow it, muscles coiling tight in a reaction so strong, it's close to instinct.

"And you just simmer down," the guard snaps. "You can keep your pet as long as you behave. Step out of line, and we'll see how many of the boys have a taste for bunny."

Oh. He understands now. The rabbit isn't a reward. The rabbit is a weapon to be used against him.

There's a hitch of breath at his back, but instead of fear, the musky scent of the rabbit's anger tickles the soldier's nose.

The guard laughs. "Yeah, you think on it, Stark. And don't expect any help from this one; he's not even going to remember you after we wipe him next."

The guard is still laughing as he leaves, but the rabbit ignores his food, wasting no time in coming to kneel at the soldier's side. "Gods, are you okay? Your arm--he didn't fry it, did he?"

"It's operational." The rabbit worries like a technician, but he's softer than them, kinder. He still smells good and safe, even though the other good, safe smell has faded.

The rabbit grimaces. One hand reaches for the soldier's arm but doesn't touch. "Does it hurt?"

"No." He thinks he understands this too: the rabbit is a weapon who doesn't wish to be a weapon. And the guard is right; soon enough, he'll forget.

The soldier needs to think on these things, long and hard, because neither one is acceptable.

***

Steve boards the Quinjet and finds Natasha already buckled in, waiting with the STRIKE team for Steve to get his rear in gear. She smiles a greeting as he settles in on her left for takeoff, and he braces himself for an hour or two of teasing as they head out to intercept the _Lemurian Star_.

She surprises him, though. Instead of leading with 'Hot date?' she asks, "How was Stark?"

"Good," he says, hoping he sounds more certain than he feels. He doesn't actually know for certain that Tony and Miss Potts are on the outs; it's just a hunch he has, one he hopes is wrong. Tony needs _someone_ to ground him, and they do make a cute couple. "I mean, it's been a few days since I saw him, but...you know. Tony."

"Hmm." Natasha doesn't sound like she believes him, but that may be because Steve isn't sure he believes him. Maybe when the mission is over he'll give Tony a call, see if he wants to get together, take his mind off...things. Without ever coming right out and saying it, because Tony's never been one for talking about his problems. About everything else, absolutely, until you'd kill for five seconds of silence, but....

After the mission. They may have made a lousy first attempt at becoming friends, but he likes to think they're getting better at it. Practice makes perfect, right? And he sort of misses having crazy rabbits causing havoc in his life.

He just hopes JARVIS will tell him which island paradise to start searching first, because Tony can be a hard man to pin down when he doesn't want to be found.

***

Barnes doesn't say anything as he gets up to go to the door, just marches over, raps twice, and waits for it to swing open. Then he stands there some more, staring creepily until the guard outside growls in frustration. "For fuck's sake, in or out!"

Tony heaves himself up from his sprawl across the rickety bed and goes to stand against the wall opposite the door, folding his arms across his chest as he settles in to wait. It's not that he's expecting a chance to make a break for it. He just wants to be ready in case Hydra decides to find out for themselves how far Barnes is willing to be pushed when it comes to Tony's safety.

When he'd realized Hydra was testing his fit as a leash, he'd been pissed, to say the least. He's past that now, into the sort of rage that leaves his body near-vibrating with pent-up energy but his mind crystal clear. There's almost nothing useful in their tiny little cell but Barnes himself, and that's just...not an angle he even wants to approach. The problem is that he has too much time and too little to occupy him, so.

He's tried to tease out more of Barnes' memories--the good ones, with Captain Optimism and ladies lining up to take a walk on the wilder side--but he honestly can't tell whether Barnes is drawing a blank or just good at playing dumb. He's a bundle of contradictions, touchy about having his head or left arm messed with but perfectly willing to be manhandled otherwise. He doesn't say much, but he listens to Tony ramble with rapt attention. He scares the ever-loving crap out of the guards, and Tony knows from a few terse explanations that their terror is perfectly justified, but you can only be used as a full-body pillow so many times before the murderkitten in the room is just not scary anymore.

And besides, Barnes is...comfortable...weirdly enough. Relentlessly tactile, but that's one of the things Tony _likes_ about felines. You never have to wonder where you stand with a cat. If a cat's not speaking to you, the entire city and half the surrounding suburbs knows it. A cat that wants your attention isn't shy about going after it. And once they have it, well...then there's that _purr_.

He's missed purring. The lazy grooming that has almost nothing to do with getting the furry bits of him in order. Even the kneading, though to be fair, Barnes tends to do that on Tony's stomach, which is ridiculous and adorable and just about the only thing that gets his brain to turn off long enough for him to get any sleep. He's not quite sure how he feels about being the little spoon _all the time_ , but--

He's been trying not to dwell on the unthinking certainty in Barnes' 'He's mine,' because on the one hand he's pissed at Hydra for twisting the guy around so much he thinks people can be given away like some kind of Years of Service award. The rest of the time he's pissed at himself, because Barnes is a startlingly attractive man, even now, and that's not a thing he wants to be noticing when Barnes isn't even in his right mind.

He really wishes he'd finished that suit.

"In a hurry, Soldier?" the night guard outside taunts as Barnes returns. Tony really hopes he gets the chance to pop that asshole right in the canines he's so damn proud of. "Wouldn't want to keep Foo Foo here waiting."

"Wait, seriously?" Tony demands as the door comes open. "Little Bunny Foo Foo? _Seriously?_ It's a nursery rhyme about a _serial killer_. Why don't any of you people get that?"

He can tell by the puzzled tilt of Barnes' ears that he doesn't get it either, but at least Barnes has an excuse. He's got another salad with him, and Tony knows he shouldn't complain, but damn it, there's such a thing as steaming, frying, casseroles. There are _entire food groups_ comprised of things like fruits and grains. He's just getting really sick of salads is what he's saying here.

Barnes is halfway through the open door when the lights go out in time with a far-off, echoing boom.

The emergency lights flicker to life second later, but by then Barnes has reached over right-handed, caught the guard by the scruff of the neck, and slammed him face-first into the wall by the door. Barnes drops him without another glance, stooping to set Tony's dinner aside while pushing the door open wider.

Tony doesn't need a written invitation. He dives out into the hall, going right for the guard before Barnes even gets a chance to search the--body? Yep, body. Wow.

Barnes stares--no, _waits_ \--as Tony relieves the guard of gun, radio, security badge and keys. When Tony pops back upright, Barnes nods once and starts back down the hall.

A technician pokes his head out a few doors down, spots Barnes and tries to skitter back inside with a curse. He doesn't manage to slam the door halfway before Barnes is on him, bashing the door aside with his shoulder as he lunges. There's a sharp, muffled cry, followed by the sandbag thump of something boneless hitting the ground.

When Barnes rejoins Tony, he's armed as well. More armed. Whatever.

"Was that a bomb just now?" Tony asks as they pass the elevator, making their way for the stairs. "Are you blowing up a Hydra base?

Barnes nods shortly. His eyes have gone hunting-sharp, all his attention fixed on his senses, their next move.

"Okay, but why are you blowing up a Hydra base? I mean, not that I'm complaining. It just seems a little out of character, is all." This isn't how things were supposed to have gone. He's still working on bringing Barnes back to himself; he hasn't even asked the guy to defect yet.

"Escape."

Tony wants to shout in frustration, but now's not exactly the time. "Yes, I figured out we're escaping--thank you, by the way--but--damn it, Barnes!" he gripes as Barnes lengthens his stride, pulling ahead as if trying to outrun Tony's questions.

Barnes is ignoring him, focused on ripping the door to the emergency stairs off its hinges, but he glances back at the sound of his name.

Tony starts, wide-eyed. "Holy shit--did you remember?"

The look Barnes gives him is dubious at best. "That's all you ever call me."

"Oh." Right. "Look...I'm all for getting out--that was totally the plan, as soon as I had a plan--but...why are you doing this?" If Barnes has decided this is the only way he can keep his pet, things are going to get awkward fast.

Barnes hesitates, searching for words or uncertain how they'll be received. "You don't want to be a weapon."

"For Hydra?" Tony asks, startled. "Hell, no."

Barnes nods, something in his face relaxing. "I remember that," he says, oblivious to the way Tony's stomach clenches and rolls at the admission. "I remember falling," he adds, meeting Tony's eyes steadily. "You'll tell me the rest."

Tony swallows thickly. "Yeah. Everything I know. And we'll hunt down Rogers to fill in what I don't. It's a promise."

Something very like a smile plays at the corners of Barnes' mouth just before he turns away, peering up the dark stairwell with his appropriated gun at the ready.

Tony knows Rogers will probably all but piss a circle around Barnes the instant Rogers claps eyes on him, but the hell with that. Tony's claiming his own share, right here, right now. If this is Barnes with his head still scrambled and most of his memories gone, Tony wants to see the way Barnes' mind works when it's firing on all cylinders. And sure, he'd usually think there's no way he could carve a place for himself in the midst of such an epic friendship, but he's got one advantage Rogers doesn't.

It's not that hard to get a cat to chase you when you're a rabbit.

***

Steve has approximately ten seconds to think _Oh my gods, Bucky?_ before a snarling juggernaut of rage bowls him over, making him look like a complete idiot in front of what may have been the first modern friend SHIELD didn't set him up with on the sly.

Typical.

***

The truth is, Tony is getting entirely too old for this shit. Not the running from enemy agents bit, although he'd be thrilled if that happened less often. The agents being Hydra is a nice change of pace, though.

No, what he is entirely too old for is being on the wrong side of a fight with Captain America. Not that he's actually the one fighting, and not that he has any idea what set Barnes off, only...maybe he'd sounded a little _too_ happy to see Rogers when they caught up to the overgrown mutt on his morning run. In his too-tight running shirt, covered with a light sheen of sweat, apparently having convinced himself he's a bird dog. The guy with the feathers is definitely a catch.

Okay, yes. Tony likes bucking the stereotypes, but he's still a rabbit, has eyes, isn't _dead_. And who isn't happy to see Captain America? Really, now.

Barnes had twitched, sniffed the air, looked at Tony and then at Steve, then launched himself at Rogers with nothing but murder in his heart.

Yeah, this is Tony's fault. Someone's almost certainly called the cops.

"Barnes!" he yells, grabbing Bird Guy by the arms from behind before he can leap back into the fray and try to pull Barnes off Rogers. That he got right back up again after Barnes pitched him halfway across the damn green says a lot about the guy's durability; Barnes tends not to fuck around. "This isn't what I meant when I said we needed to hunt down Rogers!"

Steve looks startled, like he hadn't even noticed Tony before this. That does wonders for Tony's ego, it really does, though to be fair, Rogers has been on the defensive the entire time, too stunned at seeing Barnes in the first place to really take note of anything else. Hearing Tony seems to snap him back to himself, and a look of grim determination settles over his features that Tony doesn't like at all.

"Oof," Tony says as Bird Guy nails him in the stomach with an elbow, the breath he drew to yell at everybody to stand the fuck down escaping him in a rush.

It's too late anyway. Charging forward like a freight train, Steve slams into Barnes, tackles him to the grass, and--

Licks him. Right in the face. And _does not stop_.

Barnes yowls in outrage, the most noise Tony's ever heard out of him, struggling wildly to kick Steve off him and turning his head to bury his teeth in Steve's arm. Steve doesn't even seem to notice, intent on washing Barnes' face like a pup greeting its brother after a _whole day_ apart.

"What the hell...?" Bird Guy mutters, the feathers of his short crest bristling in disbelief.

"Don't look at me," Tony says, coughing a little as he gets his breath back. "I just work the reunion magic. The rest is up to them."

"Magic, huh?" Bird Guy says with a glance at Tony's ears.

"Don't make me make you disappear."

Bird Guy snorts just as Steve finally backs off enough for Barnes to twist out from under him, hissing and spitting and scrubbing at his face as he backs off with a growl.

Steve narrows his eyes as he straightens, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "And I'll _do it. Again_."

Barnes' growl redoubles, but he doesn't resume his attack, standing his ground as Tony darts up to get between the two.

"Okay, you two, time out. Barnes, stop being a jealous asshole. You're a lynx, not a housecat. Steve...I can explain everything."

"I'm listening," Rogers says helplessly, without the wary edge that might have been there another day.

"Holy shit," Bird Guy curses, huge eyes fixed on Barnes. The penny must have dropped. "Is that--?"

The honk of a horn cuts Tony's explanation off before he can begin. He turns with a plastic smile, expecting police cruisers, and finds Natasha watching them from the safety of a shiny black sports car. She's wearing a flirty little smile that means she's probably got guns trained on all of them.

"Boys?"

Barnes ignores her, too busy trying to purify his beautiful face now that it's been made unclean by dog slobber. Rogers ignores her too, too busy sidling up to Barnes, his ridiculous tail going crazy. Bird Guy looks just faintly disappointed.

Tony stretches his fake grin even wider.

"Romanoff, hello! Looks like its old home week for everybody."

"Old home week. That's one way of putting it." She's watching Barnes with an unreadable expression when she says it, but that's foxes for you. Way more mysterious than cats.

Natasha's eyes flicker, going a tiny bit wider in an uncharacteristic display of surprise. Hearing a smack followed by a sharp yelp, Tony whips back around to find Steve looking sheepish, standing entirely too close to Barnes. Barnes' hair is even more disordered than it was a minute ago, and his ears are pinned flat to his skull. He's purposefully turned half-away from Steve, who shuffles closer like an idiot and buries his face in Barnes' hair _again_.

"Rogers!" Tony snaps with a scowl. "Get your death wish out of Barnes' ear!"

Barnes whacks Rogers again--claws still sheathed, which is telling, very telling--then freezes, head turning to track something only he can hear. Steve stops snuffling him long enough to go on point, growling softly but inquisitively.

"Uh...people?" Tony says, reminded all of a sudden that they still have Hydra on their tail. "I think we'd better get out of here. I've got some bombshells to drop, and that's best done in a bunker."

Romanoff checks her rear view mirror, her mouth tightening as she sees something she doesn't like.

"New Guy," she calls, one hand hesitating on the steering wheel. "You got a car with more leg room around here?"

"Right this way," Cap's play date says, not bothering to ask for details.

They cut across the mall with no sign of pursuit, introductions made on the fly. Turns out Rogers has pretty good taste in random hookups; Bird Guy is former pararescue.

When they find Wilson's car, Tony gets shoved into the front seat by Natasha while she and Steve flank Barnes in the back. They probably think they've got him pinned that way, but Wilson has barely pulled away from the curb before Tony hears a scuffle. He almost doesn't want to look, but when he hears another muffled yelp, he turns half around and stills, staring.

Barnes has Rogers in a headlock, claws out this time, but he's grooming Steve's ears, pausing every now and then to bite. Rogers doesn't even wince, just goes right on looking idiotically happy, his tail thumping loudly against the door.

Wilson shakes his head ruefully. "Raised by cats."

"Mm," Natasha agrees with a smile that could pass for feline. "Makes his complete lack of self-preservation almost make sense."

Tony turns back around and swallows a huff. He's clearly been hanging around too many felines himself. It's the only explanation he has for the uncomfortable, annoying, _insulting_ conviction that Steve is _in his spot_.

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
>    
>  [Why Bucky = Canada Lynx forever](https://imgur.com/a/KBlfQ)   
> 


End file.
